THE PERFECT FRIDAY NIGHT DATE


It was one of those Friday nights that Lance and I had planned to go out to "a dinner and a movie", but that's not quite what happened. After teaching my class, I got comfy in my standard yoga pants and some insipid shirt. When Lance came home, he asked if I wanted to go out on the deck first. It was one of those nights where we kept asking each other, "Where do you want to eat?" He would suggest someplace and I said,"No, I had that for lunch." I would say, "How about bar-b-que?" and he said that he wasn't in the mood. This exchange went on for several rounds. Usually when that happens, it means that neither of us are all that hungry.

We both ended up at the railing of our deck and, for no apparent reason, I leaned over the deck and spit. Lance was taken back and said, "In our 26 years of marriage, I have never seen you spit."

So what ensued next was something so juvenile, so infantile, so ridiculous...We had a spitting contest!

I spit again and then Lance spit. I spit; he spit. Then Lance began rating the spew. He deemed me the "shotgun" because I got it everywhere. Lance then became known as the "sharp shooter" because he had a direct target and hit it.

Then it happened, he accused my spitting as inferior. I came back with that I should not be judged by his expectations. I pointed out that people are created differently, how we "shotgun spitters" need love too. Everyone needs to be tolerant. The world is not made up of just "sharp shooters". The world is big enough for both kinds of spitters and that God loves us all.

After I chastised him for his lack of political correctness in including all spitters as one family, we got in the car to find a place to eat. Since I didn't want to change from my junk clothes, I thought we'd go through a drive-through, but "Mr. Sharp Shooter" talked me into going into Teresa's. "Come on," he said, "It's Friday night, we won't see anyone there."

As we entered the door, I immediately saw half of TrueNorth in there. No one said anything about my tacky yoga pants; I think they were looking at my still-wet spit on the front of my shirt.

You may be thinking that maybe I need a hobby, but you see, one of my hobbies is having a blast with Lance on Friday nights. And other than the SPIT HAPPENS JUDGMENT, it was a perfect date.

Until next post,

Mama Chick